


Whispers in the Dark

by ThroughtheMirrorDarkly



Series: A New Beginning [3]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Don't Post To Another Site, Drama & Romance, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, I Update When I Update, M/M, Magical Realism, Matter of Life and Death, Peloponnesian War, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, no beta we die like spartans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:20:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22623211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThroughtheMirrorDarkly/pseuds/ThroughtheMirrorDarkly
Summary: Aster Potter’s journey takes her back further than she thought possible, to a time where Gods and Myths reigned over all Ancient Greece. The Cult of Kosmos seeks to control everything and what it cannot, it will destroy. When a bounty is placed upon the witch’s head, her path collides with the famed misthios known as Alexios, the Eagle-Bearer and the impact it will have on the world around them will be long lasting.
Relationships: Alexios/Aster Potter, Past Alexios/Alkibiades
Series: A New Beginning [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1102500
Comments: 17
Kudos: 58





	1. Dead Men Talking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: For disclaimer sake and my OCD, I do not own anything from Harry Potter or Assassin’s Creed. This is purely to challenge myself as a writer and hopefully for some readers enjoyment out there. Nothing more, nothing less.
> 
> Summary: Aster Potter’s journey for her family takes her back further than she thought possible, to a time where Gods and Myths reigned over all Ancient Greece. The Cult of Kosmos seeks to control everything and what it cannot, it will destroy. When a bounty is placed upon the witch’s head, her path collides with the famed misthios known as Alexios, the Eagle-Bearer and the impact it will have on the world around them will be long lasting.
> 
> Pairings: Aster/Alexios, past Alexios/Alkibiades
> 
> Author’s Note: I intend to do a lot of stories (originally one shots but my muse found coffee, so here we are), with a beginning-middle-end, with several different assassins from the series as a sequel to “A New Beginning”. This is one of the sequels, and while it has changed a LOT from what I originally had plotted out, I love how this all turned out.

* * *

Whispers in the Dark 

By ThroughtheMirrorDarkly

* * *

1 

Dead Men Talking

* * *

_424 BCE_

_Athens, Greece_

_Port of Piraeus_

Alexios, the Eagle-Bearer, cut a striking figure amongst the crowded Athenian streets. He stood taller than most man and lined with weapons from head to toe. His dark brown hair was in matted locks, a handful pulled back into a knot at the back of his skull. The rest of his matted strands that hung down freely just above his shoulders, and a few were adorned with beads. He ran a palm down the length of his sharp jawline covered in stubble while his amber eyes scanned the messages pinned to the board beneath the statue of Hermes. The sunlight glinted off his armor as a beacon while Ikaros soared above, ever watchful and vigilant. Tales of her deeds spread like wildfire over the years. It had all started at Megaris, which had been nearly eight years ago. 

War had greeted him that day and had never left. It was like the aftertaste of a bad wine, and his memories were filled with flags. Red banners. Blue banners. The clinking of coin that filled his purse came with a heavy burden, and his loyalties to Athens or Sparta fluctuated based on the swing of his mood. The cold and hard truth was that Alexios did not have any horse in this race beyond weeding out the spies and warriors tied to the Cult of Kosmos. 

Alexios had been chipping away at their hold. One by one, Cult Members fell to his blade and the closer she grew to discovering the Ghost whom the led the Cult. But until such a time arrived, Alexios had turned his mind to other pursuits. However, his vengeful pursuits did not pay well enough to maintain his ship and crew, so Alexios still had to take mercenary contracts. 

“Oh, my! It seems the Gods do favor me on this day.” Alkibiades was a strikingly handsome and sharp-witted man who lived an extravagantly and debauched lifestyle. He played the Athenian courts, making enemies and allies alike, staying one step ahead in most of his endeavors. “Here I was praying for the Gods to lend me a hand, and whose path should I cross but the mighty Alexios?” 

“Alkibiades,” Alexios greeted, flashing him a smile. “It is good to see you again.” 

“It has been too long, my dear friend! Much has changed here in Athens, and not for the better. Kleon rules the city with all the finesse of a bull in a pottery shop. I would praise him for being tenacious, if that didn’t go hand in hand with his short sightedness,” Alkibiades complained, with a miserable and put-upon expression on his face. He then changed mood his on an obol and a charming smile danced across his lips. “There is a symposium today at Mikkos’ house. He is a wealthy statesman here in Athens—” 

“I’m not one to dress up,” said Alexios, quickly. 

“As I well recall, little goat.” Alkibiades smirked. “But you will not need to wear any fancy robes. You could choose not to wear anything at all, if you’d like. I know _I_ certainly wouldn’t mind.” 

Alexios smirked, despite himself. There was a time that he and Alkibiades were lovers, but the Athenian had married the lovely Hipparete a few years back, which brought an end to their love affair. “I feel that you are trying to persuade me to help you with another of those weird favors again,” he replied. 

“Oh, no. No favors for me. Disappointing I know.” Alkibiades chuckled, with his arms folded across his chest. “No, the favor is for a…friend of sorts. The man that I mentioned that is holding the symposium. He is need of a good mercenary and he asked me if I knew anyone worth their weight in gold, so…” 

“So you mentioned me,” Alexios said. “You said only good things, I hope?” 

“Of course! As if I would do anything less,” Alkibiades commented, with a mild scoff and wave of his hand. “Mikkos seems very desperate and has a lot of coin to spend. I figured better in your hands than in his pockets.” 

“I thought he was your friend?” Alexios raised a brow at him. “You make him sound like a rival.” 

“I’ll have you know that some of my best rivals are my greatest friends!” Alkibiades responded, offended. 

Alexios shook his head. “I will never understand your Athenian politics, but I am looking for work and if you are sure this Mikkos is paying well, then I will go and hear him out.” 

“Wonderful!” enthused Alkibiades. “Shall I lead the way?” 

“After you.” 

Alexios followed Alkibiades through the overflowing streets. It was _strange_ to be back here after everything that happened. Athens wasn’t just a city to him anymore, but a ghost that haunted his worst nightmares. His footsteps were steady, and his chin was raised, but there was a part of him that wanted to shrink back away from the stone walls. 

Democracy was the life blood of Athens, a city built on the ever-shifting voice of the people. It was a beacon of freedom and choice, but a gloom has settled over the city in the aftermath of plague and death. The death of Perikles, the Father of Democracy casted a long shadow, and the fevered cries from the masses for his death were now murmurs of regret. It was easy to lose reason to madness when the world seemed to be falling apart, searching for people who offered easy answers or solutions whether that meant appeasing the Gods or temporary fear. Alexios observed the citizens that were blissfully of the vultures that were the root of all the sorrows and darkness in Greece. 

Unaware of the hidden war that would determine the fate of the Greek World. 

The Cult of Kosmos were like water, slipping into every crack and weakness. There was not a place they did not have a foothold, not a spec of land in the known world that they hadn’t touched and not an institute that they hadn’t corrupted. Since before the time of her grandfather, Leonidas of Sparta, the Cult existed in the shadows to cultivate and steer the direction of the world. It didn’t matter who they had to stomp on to get their way, and Alexios had personally felt the cruelty that the Cult used. 

The Cult tore his family apart and they were going to pay for that. 

“Were you able to find your mother?” asked Alkibiades, in a hushed tone. 

“Yes. She was on Naxos.” 

“Ah, I had heard that the Athenian fleet defending Paros had been sunk. It caused quite a stir since the Spartans aren’t known for their naval skills,” commented Alkibiades, on a sigh. “I should have known it was only your… _prowess_ that ensured their victory. Well, if the Athenian army had to fall at anyone’s feet, I am glad that it was yours.” 

“It almost sounds like you are rooting against Athens,” Alexios stated, lightly. “Aren’t you worried about being exiled?” 

“With Kleon and his spies at the helm, I most certainly am. And it wouldn’t be the first time someone has tried to ostracize me from Athens.” Alkibiades sent him a shrewd glance out of the corner of his eye. A trace of a humorless and bitter smile sat upon his lips, while he gestured with a hand to the bustling streets. “Kleon does not appreciate the delicate freedoms in which Perikles preached and safe guarded until his dying breath. Kleon believes an iron fist will be all the world needs to prosper and be at peace, and some people are content to be led by a firm hand. Then there are others like you and I.” 

“Oh?” 

“We are like wildflowers and weeds and grow better untamed. If anyone attempts to stifle us, our roots will choke the whole garden.” 

“That was almost inspiring,” Alexios responded, a little bit in awe. 

“Was it?” Alkibiades didn’t bat an eyelash. “I suppose that Socrates would be pleased to know that not all his tutelage went to waste.” 

“Is there no good that came from Kleon’s rule?” asked Alexios. “I do not like the man, but when I talked to him briefly, I got the impression he does genuinely care for the people. His methods just differed from Perikles’.” 

“Kleon wants to bring the illusion of change. While he may have cared for the poor and impoverished, his own self-interests have overshadowed all the good that he had intended to do. The people do not see this, so that is why they still see him as a champion.” Alkibiades pinched the bridge of his nose, the only sign that he was frustrated. “If only he had been opened to compromise and not filled with greed. Perikles saw much promise in Kleon’s vision for helping change the infrastructure of society to benefit the little people but change like that doesn’t happen overnight. Kleon was not content with that and went out of his way to stoke the dissonance in Athens. He had a hand in Perikles’s death, mark my words.” 

“You don’t believe his better nature could prevail?” asked Alexios, with a curious tilt of his head. 

“Kleon seized power of Athens before Perikles’ body was even cold.” Alkibiades’ gaze burned with a righteous fury. “He has long since sacrificed his better nature.” 

It was easy to forget that Perikles was a surrogate father to Alkibiades. When Alkibiades’ father died on the battlefield, Perikles offered him a home and a place to belong, even if he couldn’t be as attentive to the young Alkibiades as the orphaned child needed. Alkibiades wouldn’t be the man he was today without Perikles. 

A wrinkle furrowed along his brow. “You must miss him,” Alexios said, quietly. 

“The world misses him,” Alkibiades replied. “The loss of his life and the ideals he held will be mourned throughout history.” 

Alexios could not disagree. He found Perikles’ ideas of freedom inspiring. The freedom of choice had eluded him most of his life. His choices had been few and far between, dictated by circumstances beyond his control. Even now, he was led by his family’s tragic legacy and his past shaped the future before him. He wondered how much was his own free will and how much was left up to the Fates. 

The _oikos_ was in the heart of the city, up in the Acropolis. Through the throng of people already well into their drinks, Alexios and Alkibiades made their way into the large home. The guard at the door stopped them, but Alkibiades swayed him with honeyed words. Alkibiades sent Alexios a salacious wink and mouthed ‘good luck’ before he parted ways with Alexios at the doorway into the _andron._

Only the wealthy, high born or people with influenced can patriciate in symposiums. It was only an affair for men to attend, as women and servants were only allowed in the andron to serve alcohol and food to the guests, but they were not allowed to stay or partake in any of the discussions or activities. It was only through Aspasia’s influence on Perikles that women were given the luxury attend his symposiums, and this fueled the darker rumors about Aspasia’s control over her lover. With his attire and demeanor, Alexios clearly didn’t belong here as he wasn’t a part of the gentry nor a philosopher, and it was immediately apparent to everyone there as a scandalized hush fell over the occupants of the room. 

Alexios raked his tongue against the seams of his lips in frustration. 

There was a man dressed in green robes and silver clasps that survey from Alexios from head to toe with an arrogant tilt to his chin and clear disgust written in his eyes. “And who let a mercenary into my symposium?” he said, loudly. 

People averted their gaze from the man as if to avoid the brunt of his wrath. 

“You must be Mikkos.” Alexios kept his expression carefully neutral. He was already regretting this favor for his former lover and so-called friend. “Alkibiades sent me. Said you had a problem that you needed a mercenary to take care of.” 

Mikkos scowled at the instant whispers his statement invoked in his guests. He made a sharp gesture for Alexios to follow him, and he led him down the hallway to the _pastas_ , away from the keen ears at his party. 

“You are the famed Eagle-Bearer, yes?” he asked. 

“And if I am?” countered Alexios. 

“Then I hope all the things that Alkibiades said about you were true. My name is Mikkos. I have a…job, so to speak that must be done quickly and with the utmost discretion which I have heard that you are good at.” He gestured to the empty _klismos_ for Alexios to take a seat. The pastas had a lovely view of the city and the streets, and it was almost easy to forget the turmoil that hungover Athens like a dark cloud. “Do you know the saying, misthios, that _‘dead men tell no tales’?”_

“A phase that I have not encountered before, but there is a ring of truth to it. Is that what this job is?” Alexios inquired, shifting uncomfortably in the seat. He shook his head at the servant who offered him a _kylix_ of wine. He was not used to such luxurious surroundings, and with his armor and weapons, he stuck out like a sore thumb. “You need me to cut out some wagging tongues? Some men who are telling…” His brows shot upward when he saw two giggling women pass by the threshold, chased by a flamboyant and laughing Alkibiades. He had already somehow managed to lose most of his clothes. “…tales?” Alexios finished, with a halting tone. 

Mikkos wrinkled his nose at Alkibiades’ vulgar display before he turned his gaze back to Alexios. “It should not be necessary. My old comrades have long since been buried in the ground, and yet I live in fear of the secrets they will share,” he replied, in a grave tone of voice. 

Alexios felt his brows climb towards his hairline. “From my experience, the dead are not too chatty.” 

“Only to those who do not have the ears to listen. The woman I need you to hunt down is a Nekromanteia,” Mikkos stated, seriously. 

“An Oracle of the Dead?” asked Alexios, shocked. 

The Nekromanteia were the voices to the dead. These oracles were said to commune with the spirits of the underworld and could even foretell the future if the Fates were so inclined to show it to them. The rituals were long and arduous, with animal sacrifice and other offerings brought to the Temples in the name of Hades and his wife, Persephone. Days could be spent in chanting meant to thin the barrier between the living and dead, until a single priest would enter the Temple to learn the answers from the other side. The answers that were received were always vague and veiled in metaphors. 

Alexios disliked the Oracles. The Pythia were said to be the earthly voices of the Gods. If the Gods did speak to the Pythia, they had long since fallen silent and in their absence, rapacious people saw an opportunity. The Oracles were the mouthpiece of the Cult of Kosmos, and Alexios shudders to think how long they held this undue influence—influence that could determine the rise and fall of nations. Twenty-five years ago, the Cult created a false prophecy had shattered his family and cut him away from all that he had known. 

“She is not affiliated with any temples or traditions, in any official capacity at least,” Mikkos explained, with his hands clasped behind his back. He gazed out the view of Athens he had from his balcony, a disturbed look upon his face. “The underworld is obscured from the living because it is a truth we are not meant to touch until we experience death. The Nekromanteia are the only people who can hear whispers or visions from the beyond, and even then, much it hidden from their sight.” 

“But this Nekromanteia is different from the rest of the Oracles?” Alexios questioned, curiously. 

“She speaks to the spirits of the underworld as clearly as I am speaking to you,” Mikkos replied, with no small amount of scorn. “She calls them from the Underworld at a whim, passing between the veil of the living and the dead where others only dare to tread once. This power…No mortal should hold so much sway over the dead. It is an affront to the natural order of things, and if my enemies were to make use of her talents—well, that cannot be allowed to happen.” 

“You want her dead?” Alexios asked for clarification. In his line of business, it was better to be straight forward. It was just a good way to avoid any unnecessary messes. 

“Yes.” Mikkos nodded. 

“And where would I find this Oracle?” 

“There is a Temple of Hades in Elis,” Mikkos replied, dismissively. “Perhaps, you can find answers there.” 

A servant entered the room with a sack of gold which was placed on the table beside Alexios, and the servant scurried off quickly like her life depended upon it. 

“Half of your pay upfront,” Mikkos stated. “You will get the rest when the job is finished.” 

Alexios departed quickly from the party, with his coin purse much heavier. He walked out the building, running his hand down the length of his throat. _I should see if Barnabas has any stories about this Nekromanteia,_ Alexios thought. _But there is one thing I have do first…_

He cast his gaze northeast to the _Kerameikos._ A great cemetery that had been built upon the Eridanos river centuries ago. Many of the most notable and colorful figures throughout the Grecian history. There was only one grave that concerned him now, and with a heavy heart, he descended from the great heights of Athens. 

The journey took less time than he would have liked. It gave him little time to compose his thoughts, and his chest grew tight—tighter still as he approached the headstones erected in memory of the long departed. And down the stone pathway, he ventured further until he came to a grave where an eagle had been carved into the stone. His heart lurched at the sight of her name and his closed his eyes tight. 

Phoibe had been an orphan on Kephallonia. He had seen a lot of himself in the girl, so he had taken her underneath his wing. It had been one of the hardest things he had ever had to do to leave her behind. He had thought it was for the best because the life of a mercenary on the seas wasn’t a place for a child. And then he heard about blood plague that had consumed his one-time home. Guilt and fear stole his soul out of his chest while he had his crew sail through day and night away from Megaris, and when he stepped foot on that island— 

It was like he had stepped into the Underworld. 

The dead piled the streets. People were few and far between. Wild animals ran rampant and farms had withered. Markos and Phoibe were both gone. No trace of them to be found and no one could give him answers. Alexios mourned them, believing both to be dead. He had never found Markos, but he found Phoibe—alive and well in Athens! 

It had been a miracle. 

He had been overjoyed that she had escaped the devastation. He had thought Phoibe would be safe, in Athens and working underneath Aspasia, and far away from him and the Cult that hunted him. He had thought she would be safe, up until the second that she wasn’t. Aspasia hadn’t heard from Phoibe in hours, and with so much unrest in the streets, Alexios had gone to find her. He had just passed the Theater of Dionysus and descended the stairs when a scream cracked across the stone over all else. It was a sound that chill him to the bone and his head snapped up, and he saw Phoibe race into a nearby building, chased by Cultist Guards. 

His heart had been clenched in his chest like a fist, and he had run faster than he ever had before, but time had stretched out to a crawl all around him. It hadn’t been enough. He hadn’t been _enough_. By the time he had reached her, Phoibe was dead. 

Her death was his greatest failure, and his greatest regret. 

“Ah, Alexios. I had a feeling that you would return to Athens soon.” 

There was an inexplicable moment where Alexios felt torn upon the sight of Socrates. The philosopher had given him enough headaches to last a lifetime, with his incessant need for debate and often left the misthios with more questions than answers. Regardless, the man was a loyal friend and had helped him more times than he could count. “I see that you heeded my word, and kept yourself alive,” the mercenary stated, with a wry grin. 

“I would have attempted it even if you hadn’t told me to,” Socrates replied, with a hearty chuckle. The philosopher was a short and rotund, with a dark scraggly beard and intense eyes that always seemed to be staring and evaluating. His brilliant mind and skill for debate, drew him students from all around the world and earned him much ire from those that he had thoroughly confounded. He dressed in the robes of a vagrant and foregone any shoes today. 

“It’s not as easy as it seems—staying alive.” Alexios exhaled, long and hushed. “There’s not many of us left. The war has taken too many.” 

“And more still if peace is not reached. For now, let us pay tribute to those who are gone. Though they are no longer with us, we keep them alive through our memory,” Socrates commented, somberly. He and Alexios walked through the cemetery at a slow and sedated pace. “My opinion on death is a nebulous one, because I know nothing about it. Therefore, I know shouldn’t be afraid.” 

“I’m not afraid, either,” he said. 

Death had greeted him early on in his life, though he had not claimed him. These brushes with the Underworld had become constant in his life, and the more that he became familiar with it, the less he feared it. 

“Many are, because they don’t know what death holds for them. One can only trust that the Gods know for certain,” Socrates stated, after a moment of contemplation. The philosopher came to a halt in front of a tombstone, a simple sheet of marble with a beautiful carved eagle and an all too familiar name below it. “I suspected that you would want to see her first.” 

“Phoibe.” 

The name was scarcely more than a whisper. He felt tears build up in his eyes, a great wave that threatened to consume him. “She never got to be a little girl,” he said, around his heart that was caught in the middle of his throat. “I talked to her like she was already grown up.” 

“Which you did out of respect for her,” Socrates told him, his voice filled with compassion. “Question your choices, Alexios, but never doubt them.” 

Alexios cleared his throat, swiping the tears off his face and his head dipped in a shaky nod. “Thank you for giving her the burial she deserved,” he responded, his voice unsteady. His hand dropped like dead weight to his side, and he raised his gaze to lock eyes with Socrates. “I didn’t want to leave her like that.” 

“There are countless others here, in Elysium. The blessed have earned that eternal happiness. Phoibe has more than earned her place in the golden fields, so let your heart rest easy in that knowledge,” Socrates said, quietly. 

Alexios made an offering by burning incense he had gathered on his travels in a small cup. He set the cup down in front of the gravestone and watched the thin strip of smoke rise into the air. A soft prayer was murmured underneath his breath, with his eyes clenched shut and he put all his faith into that wish. In the end, that is all that prayers were, just hopes waiting to be fulfilled. This was one wish that he needed to be true because the thought of Phoibe not at peace…it was unthinkable. He reluctantly pried himself away the grave. It cut deep to rise to his feet and walk away, but if he stayed there any longer, he would drown in guilt. 

His soul cracked with each step and he barely kept himself from shattering. He came to stand beside Socrates in front of an ornate mausoleum, the luxury afforded to the rich and well-known. The depiction of a gorgon etched onto the door to ward off evil and thieves. 

“Perikles was laid to rest here,” Socrates informed him. 

“Athens owes him a debt for all he’s done,” he said, quietly. 

“They didn’t call him the _the first citizen of Athens_ for nothing. A man of many contributions, but also a private man,” Socrates stated, a wistful note in his voice. 

“The mausoleum is quite large for one person,” Alexios commented. 

“Perikles is not the only one that is laid to rest there. His sons, Xanthippus and Paralus, and their mother, Dejanira, were buried in the tomb,” commented the philosopher, the lines in face deepened with sorrow. “All victims of the plague.” 

“I thought Aspasia was Perikles’ wife?” asked Alexios, shocked. 

“Only in his heart. I’m afraid that the laws in Athens prevent the marriage between an Athenian man and a foreign woman,” replied Socrates. “Aspasia being involved heavily in politics did not win her any favors from the traditionalists, so the law stayed in place to give them a bit of peace of mind. As for Perikles’ marriage to Dejanira—they were divorced several years ago. Amicable from what I understand.” 

“Amicable?” 

“Dejanira wanted a simpler home and hearth. Perikles wished to change the world. That only sealed the fate of their marriage,” Socrates responded, after a hearty sigh. “There were other factors that contributed, but their marriage was kept relatively private. As outsiders, we only have speculation which if judged by history proves to often be unreliable.” 

The two walked through the quiet graveyard past people who had come to pray and leave offerings to the Gods to guard their loved ones in the afterlife. “I am aware of how rumors can take a life of their own,” said Alexios, with a somber look on his face. He cracked his knuckles warily when he passed a known mercenary, Exekias the Legend. It wouldn’t be the first time another bounty hunter came after the price on his head. “I know that Perikles had a son with Aspasia but have never met the man.” 

“When the tides turned in Athens, Perikles sent him far away in effort to protect him. In the last correspondence I had with Aspasia, she had hopes to join him in Makedonia as soon as she could secure safe passage,” Socrates replied. “There has been talk of peace being brokered between Athens and Sparta, and Aspasia is hopefully that the end of this war is in sight.” 

“I wish I could share her optimism, but I’ve seen the battlefield. They are as bloody as ever, and it does not seem close to even stopping. The Cult and Deimos wouldn’t allow it.” He wondered what his sister was up to now, and pitied the poor souls caught in her path. He was not looking forward to the day that their blades would cross. His dark eyes flickered over to the philosopher with a curious frown furrowed on his brow. “Does Perikles have any other children?” he asked. 

Socrates frowned, deeply. “There was…a daughter, but she was stillborn from all accounts. It was a loss that Dejanira and Perikles never quite managed to recover from. It is the greatest of griefs to lose a child.” 

“Grief has a way of shaping people’s lives.” 

“To understand why grief is so potent, one must understand just what grief is,” Socrates started, but was halted by the hearty laugh that erupted out of the mercenary. 

“Oh, no. I am not getting stuck in another endless debate with you,” Alexios commented, with a firm shake of his head. “I know where that leads. Me, with a headache and you, with even more questions than when we started.” 

Socrates let out a good-natured chuckle. “A debate for another time then. I bid you safe journeys, Alexios,” he replied, with a half-smile. “May the waters take to you places safe and warm.” 

“From your mouth to the Gods’ ears,” Alexios replied, rubbing the back of his neck. The mercenary did not feel that that the Gods of Olympus favored him, all that much. He supposed that he shouldn’t complain that much, given that those that the Gods did favor were not the lucky and often ended in tragedy. His life might be significantly easier if the Gods kept their noses out of it. 

* * *

_Elis, Greece_

_Elis City_

Aster Potter stood in the shadow of the Asclepeions, with a shimmering cloak swathed about her shoulders and green eyes cast down on the bustling street below. The Olympic Games were to be held this year, and the atmosphere brimmed with excitement and anticipation. Still there was this unease that she just couldn’t shake. She ran her fingers across her hair, that was as fiery as her legendary temper and was pulled back into a long braid that hung halfway down her back. The fringe was matted to the side of her face by sweat and dirt. Blood splattered that mingled with the freckles that dotted her face, the sent and feel of it had become as familiar as a friend. 

Some days it still felt like a dream that she would wake up from. She stood in awe at this world, where civilization had just hit its stride and so much of the world was left untouched—unexplored! There was sense of wonder and freedom that came with that. And then there were days like this one, dragging on for eternity and left her feeling aged a thousand years. Weary from the tip top of her head all way down to her toes, the witch gnawed on her lower lip while she kept an iron clad grip on what little composure she had. 

A man came to stand at her side with his hands clasped behind his back. His deep-set eyes were ringed with dark circles, and his mouth was pinched into a severe frown. For the hair that he lacked on top of his head, he more than made up for with his full and dark beard. “You did well today, Aster,” praised Hippokrates, gently. 

Her eyes were bloodshot, complexion ashen, and a dour smile pulled at her lips. “And my best still wasn’t enough.” 

“There are no hands on this earth that are skilled enough to heal the dead. The farmer’s heart was not beating, even before he was brought into the building,” Hippokrates told her, kindly. “His soul had already sailed down the Acheron guided by Charon, and his wife would have easily followed him into the Underworld, if you had not acted swiftly.” 

Her heart felt like an open and gaping wound. The blood had been washed off her hands, but she could still feel it. The famer and his wife had been attacked by wolves on their route to the city. They were not the first people to be attacked, nor would they be the last. It was not typical behavior for wolves, to brazenly attack humans in such a manner but the war was impacting more than just human lives. The soldiers set up camps, cutting down trees and hunting wildlife had forced the wolves to expand their hunting grounds in search of food. Starvation was a powerful motivator, especially in the animal kingdom. 

The husband died from severe trauma and blood loss. The wife was spared, though she would be quite scarred. 

“I do not think she will be happy to have survived,” Aster responded, after a terse silence. “You heard her screams when she was told that her husband was dead. The way they echoed through the halls…” 

“The loss of a lover is a harsh and cold agony. We can put the one we love on a pedestal, holding them up high. Sometimes, even higher than the gods.” The lines around his eyes crinkled in sympathy, while Hippokrates placed a hand on her shoulder. “Her heart will be burdened by grief, but there is a future where life and love may flourish that would not be there if she had died today. That matters, do not tell yourself otherwise.” 

“May being the key word.” She spotted the Priests of Hades, unmistakable in their black, knee length chitons. A murder of crows amongst all the brightly, and colorful dressed crowd. The four men were huddled in a circle, eyes flickered to where she stood, and she could see the smug curls of their mouths. “Ah, the clucking hens. I suppose they are quite pleased to know a patient under my care died. It gives them comfort to see me fail, I think.” 

“I wish you would not antagonize them so,” Hippokrates stated, quietly. “Priests hold much sway over the people and the politics. It is not a wise decision to make enemies where you cannot afford to.” 

“I tried to make peace with them, if you so recall. They are the ones that continue to force the issue,” Aster countered, hotly. 

She had little desire to immerse herself in the religion of this world. There was no altar where she would bend knee and pray, even though there were many whom would see her firmly underneath the thumb of the spiritual leaders at the Nekromanteion. They feared her enough to not force the issue, to her face at least. She knew that it highly likely that they plotted behind her back to kill or control her. It was hard to fear a group of scraggly old men when she has literally stared down the jaws of a dragon. 

“More and more people flock to the Temple of Hades to seek you out. It upsets the elders, adding to the fervor against you,” Hippokrates said, his brow furrowed into a concerned frown. “There was a priestess of Aphrodite who visited from Kythera. She expressed disappointment that you were absent.” 

“We must all learn to live with disappointment,” Aster commented, dryly. 

The people who had been searching her out to summon ghosts had in the beginning just been the average everyday person. A farmer here, a merchant there, the occasional hetaerae. Nothing that put on her edge or caused her any great concern. That had taken a drastic turn over the last several months, when the more influence people started to express an interest in her work. She had avoided politicians and the gentry, feeling that was more trouble than it was worth. Her brief trip to Athens years ago had only cemented that choice. 

The healer reached up and stroked his beard, his eyes swept away and darkened with thought. “I fear that this sudden burst in notoriety is intentional,” he expressed, his voice hushed. “I believe that someone wants you out of Elis or gone all together.” 

“I am of the same mind,” Aster agreed, with a shallow nod. 

A thread of trepidation wrapped tighter and tighter around her heart, as her suspicions mounted over the last several months. The witch did not have many skills that would be useful in this time period. She trusted her hands as a healer and her ability to craft potions—actual magical potions, not some hallucinogenic death drink. This is the only trade she could truly fall back on and was sorely needed. It was her heart, her bleeding heart that had compromised everything she had built. 

She had fought the temptation to selfishly use the Hallows, even though Death had given her blessing to do so. There had been times where she had been close to using them, especially given how reduced her magic was now. In the end, her resolve was broken by a child only two short years ago. A sickly child on the verge of death, and there was no potion in her repertoire that could save him. He had been seven, so young—too young to truly understand the concept of death and had been so scared. 

Her motherly instincts bid her to give him comfort, and so she had used the Ring of Resurrection. She called the spirit of his father to his side to let him know he wasn’t going to be alone. How could she do anything less? That little bit of kindness had led to rumors, and rumors were like weeds. Where one sprung up, others would soon follow. Soon people started to visit her not for her skills at healing but speak to their deceased loved ones. 

_Nekromanteia,_ they called her. Another title to add to her plethora of honorifics. 

The priest at the Temple of Hades were understandable distressed. She had hoped to calm the storm before it began by going to the priests and showing them that she was no threat. Instead, they feared her even more. Her abilities, in their eyes, to command souls from the Underworld without proper ceremony was unearthly. She defied the rules and logic about the practices that the priest held sacred. No matter how many times she attempted to extend the olive branch, she was treated like an abomination. And she had already had enough of that in the last world to last her lifetimes, thank you very much. 

The threats from her past no longer hung over her head like a gloomy overcast, but this world was quite eager to stack on new ones tailored just for her. Her life had been relatively quiet for the last five years, after a very, _very_ rough start. She should have known that her Potter luck would have caught up with her eventually. The weight of fate and prophecy that stolen her free will and left her still to this day wondering how much of her life had been her own. And stepping back in time did not release her from fate. If anything, the so-called higher powers had dug their claws deeper into her life and was determined to tear it apart. 

She had contemplated to pack up and make for greener pastures. But she had built a life here, one that she was proud of. Her children had built lives here, and it would be unfair to uprooted them for her carelessness. She poured over texts and spells, building her wards up high around the oikos and the fame. Her hands covered in blisters and nicks, from relentless training in any weapon that she could get her hands on. Her magic…was distorted and hard to manifest, without the help of the Elder wand. And flinging spells about was a good way to get the wrong sort of attention. 

Well, _more_ than she already _had_. 

“We should head to the Psophis Foothills while there is still daylight,” she commented, shrugging off the chills that ran up her spine. “It would difficult to forge for healing herbs in the dark.” 

Hippokrates chuckled, deeply. “Even more so, since my eyes are not what they used to be.” 

Aster cut a path through the steady stream of people, flowing into the city and eyeing the Athenian patrol when she passed them. Just like there good people out there, who would work in good faith and kindness, there were people that would take advantage in times of crisis. She had seen soldiers, whether their armor was Athens blue or Spartan Red, use their authority to abuse civilians that were stuck in the middle of this bloody war. 

A war that Aster had every intention of steering clear of if she had her way. 

Flower petals spun upward, guided into the air by a cold breeze. The first month of the new year was always the coldest, though the chance of a good snowfall anywhere other than the mountain tops was slim. A few days of snow here and there was about much snow they had each year. She had to admit that she missed the days of snow, for it had been abundant in England and reminded her of days curled up in front of the fireplace with a cup of hot chocolate. 

The road weaved around a grove of trees, cutting into the middle of the forest and the sounds of wildlife fluttered all around them. A fox that scuffled through across the ground, in the search of food while in the distance there was hooves that pounded into the earth, followed by a deep, short grunt of a deer claiming a territory as his own. An owl rested on a limb above, wide eyes peeled open when they passed by, only to fall shut to slumber when no danger came. 

Aster glanced over at Hippokrates, who was not used to such long treks. “We could turn around and get a horse,” she offered, in light jest. 

“Nonsense! Walking is a man’s best medicine,” Hippokrates responded, a tad bit breathless. “I am surprised that you did not bring the children with you. They are not usually far from your side.” 

Teddy and Fauna—Flutterby was her elven name—loved to come to the city. They enjoyed the splendor of music, festivities, and watching many of the athletic competitions. It was her sense of paranoia that kept the children more and more at the farm, than travelling with her to and from the city. 

“I feel better if they stayed home, at least for now,” she confided in Hippokrates. She rested her hand on the pommel of the Sword of Gryffindor that was sheathed at her waist. The weight of it was comforting and calmed her nerves. “The last battle between the Spartans and Athenians was too close to the city, and even with the Olympic Truce now in place, I do not think that will be last of the fighting. There are…other factors to be considered, but that is one of the biggest reasons.” 

“All justifiable concerns,” said Hippokrates, lightly. 

They broke from the path and ventured into the wilderness, with Aster leading them cautiously through the thicket of trees. The blueness of the sky gave way for the soft pinks and orange, and the shadows gathered all around. The barest trace of the moon hung in the sky, like a ghostly impression and not that far off in the sky beside it, was a bright star. _Not a star, it had to be a planet,_ she reasoned, with a deep frown. _In this twilight, it had to be a planet to be that bright since the sun has just hit the horizon._

_Mars burns bright tonight,_ a voice seemed to whisper against the shell of her ear. The comment dredged up bits of her past, riddled with pain and fear. A place filled with monsters lurking in every shadow, and a cold chill crept along her skin despite how she brought her cloak closer to fight chase it off. 

She would be lying if she wasn’t uneasy, to be travelling this late in the afternoon. The days were shorter, and the nights were long. The morning filled with a mild case of yellow fever, that was quelled with a couple of potions and bed rest. Several more people came in sick, but it was due to bad crops, not disease. A small favor, to be sure. And then the couple attacked by wolves, which had been the hardest situation today. The morning disappeared in a chaotic blur, and the scale of time tipped past noon unwatched. Given how long the trek from the city to the countryside was on foot, not to mention the time spent hunting for the plants, it would be dark before they returned to the city. 

“What herbs were you hoping to gather?” she asked. 

“Licorice and mandrake,” Hippokrates listed, his eyes scrutinizing the abundance of plants. A trained root cutter knew the value of all plants, even those that seemed solely for decoration alone. “The licorice I have learned helps those who struggle with asthma, among other things. The variety of mandrake roots I hope to find has the ability to help sleep and to reduce pain, though others use it for...recreational purposes.” 

Her eyes looked over the lush meadow, serene and quiet. The golden beams of sunlight were warm upon her skin, kissing the fleeting chill of the wind away and it seemed to be a far fairer afternoon than the morning had been. And yet disquiet was a specter floating around her mind. “It will take less time if we split up,” she said, with a tad bit of uncertainty. “Stay close enough to shout if you need help.” 

“Of course.” 

The witch enjoyed gathering roots and herbs for potions. It stirred up fond memories of working in the garden; she had a green thumb when it came to plants and flowers, and summer days spent in the sun where not even the Dursleys could bring down her mood. She tried not to dwell too much in the past though, even the precious good moments sprinkled across the sadness and loss. Her feet padded across the slightly damp earth, and she drew the cool air into her lungs deep. There world around her seem to hum, filled with this energy that resonated with the magic inside of her. A little song that played just for her ears alone, filled with potential and possibilities. There was a film, an oily and dark film that kept her from reaching out and grasping that energy. She shook her head to dispel such uneasy thoughts and focused on the task at hand. 

Together, Aster and Hippokrates searched the small bit of countryside until the sun gleamed on the horizon and shadows gathered all around. She stepped over the roots of a great olive tree, with her hand braced on the trunk to keep her steady. 

“Well, hello there.” Aster ran her fingertips across the bundle of elecampane that grew underneath the partial shade of the tree. The yellow flowers were shaped like the sun, majestic and the stems were easily three feet tall; the flowers were more of a summer bloom, and yet here they were in the winter. “Such a tenacious and stubborn thing, aren’t you?” she commented, a fond smile touching the edges of her lips. It had many healing properties, one of the most versatile plants in the region in her opinion. 

She only gathered a little bit of the plant, feeling wrong to cut more than that down. She carefully wrapped the flowers and leaves in a leather rag meant to preserve freshness, then tucked into the knapsack at her waist. She tied the sting tight, so nothing felt out when all the hair on the back of her neck stood on end. Her head snapped up and eyes scanned the surrounding forest; her skin crawled as if she were being watched. 

A shimmer of magic gathered around her palms on instinct, and she knelt there in the woods, motionless and wary. Seconds ticked by on her heartbeat, her green eyes narrowed but nothing happened. The sound of a nearby stream trickling, and the rustle of squirrels in the branches of her head were the only sounds that her straining ears picked up. Her teeth worried her lower lip, and she tried to shake the persistence feeling. She turned her gaze back to the plant only to see what her magic had wrought. The magic had withered the stems of the nearby elecampane, causing them to wilt and bend. Her heart seemed to drop right to her feet and rose to her feet with a curse on her lips. “Fuck.” 

Tears sprang to her eyes, and she pinched bridge of her nose. A cluster of emotions that she had valiantly choked back, now brimming along the surface of her heart almost too strong to be contained. It wasn’t about the plant. It was...about something so much deeper, and more painful. Bitter regret and sorrow settled like cold molasses in the back of her mouth. Her finger pressed against the column of her throat, and she dragged in a rattled breath. 

“Shake it off. Shake it off,” she whispered, lightly. She slowly rose to her feet and went to find Hippokrates. He was past the line of trees, near the stream to clean the dirt from his hands. By the purple flowers and leaves in his knapsack, he had found the mandrake. Aster eyeballed the innocuous looking plant, with her brow arched. “At least, it doesn’t scream,” she muttered, underneath her breath. “Hippokrates, how did you search go?” 

“Plenty of mandrake, too little of licorice. What of yourself?” he asked. 

“A bit of mint, fennel and elecampane, surprisingly.” 

“Ah, the elecampane will be a fine substitute for the licorice,” Hippokrates stated, pleased. “I should have plenty to care for my patients for a time to come. We should head back to the city. There are too many beasts in the night...” 

A dark chuckle erupted from somewhere in the veil of night. “And then some.” 

Aster whipped her head around to see a woman with the gait of a lioness, and eyes burning like the depths of the Underworld emerged out of the shadowy thicket of trees. A wraith in bloodstained, godly armor and a sword in her palm that dripped red with blood. She was tall as a mountain, and her beauty was spoilt by the uncaged rage on her features. 

Hippokrates went ashen. “Deimos…” 

“Ah, yes, the _healer_. Chrysis had many things to say about you,” Deimos taunted, with a wide and malicious smile. Her eyes were bright with a maniacal gleam that was inhuman in intensity, but behind the light was a hollowness that couldn’t be hidden. “None of them good, I’m afraid. She complained about you until her dying day. It was one of her greatest regrets that she never quite got around to seeing to your demise.” 

Aster felt her heart thump hard against her ribs, a bloodless fist closed around the hilt of her sword. Her skin crawled when those dark eyes roamed over her from head to toe, felt caught in the crosshairs of an evil the likes that she had encountered only a handful times before in her life. An evil so mad and beyond reason, that just wanted the world to burn to ashes and the earth to be soaked into earth. 

“Someone you know?” asked Aster, placing herself between the unknown threat and her charge. 

“Our paths crossed once,” Hippokrates replied, his voice wobbled with fear. He jutted out his chin stubbornly, and his hands twined around the strap of his knapsack. “I would proceed with caution. This woman has carved a bloody through all of Greece and is feared to be a demigod. She is the one that murdered Perikles.” 

“Perikles?” The name stabbed deep into her gut, causing a mixture of emotions to surface. It was an unwelcomed, knee-jerk reaction that she couldn’t quell. “I thought the plague claimed him. I did not know that he was murdered,” she whispered, a lump in her throat. 

“He was well on his way to Hades before I got to him.” Deimos drew her thumb across the edge of the blade, testing the sharpness while her eyes bore into Aster. “In fact, he was so frail and weak that killing him was a mercy. You should be grateful that I put him out of his misery.” 

“Grateful?” Hippokrates said, his expression twisted in outrage. It was not often that the level-headed healer lost control of his emotions. “I’d imagine that Perikles would be everything, _but_ grateful.” 

“Then he can give his complaints to Hades.” Deimos was wholly unconcerned by the outburst, regarding him as one would a mere worm writhing in fresh soil. “I am not here to debate the death of a man long since rotted and gone. I am here for you, little Oracle,” Deimos said, pointing a finger right at Aster. 

Unease sloshed in the pit of her stomach, she glowered at Deimos. “I am no Oracle,” she denied, defensively. 

“Ah, no need to be modest. Your reputation has proceeded you. I would bet there isn’t a person in all of Greece that has not sought an audience with the woman who speaks so clearly to the dead,” Deimos responded, in a cold and mocking tone. There was undercurrent of blacken rage that rippled off the warrior woman in waves, like a predator just waiting for a reason to pounce. “The priests and priestesses at the Temples are most displeased. If they did not fear angering the Gods, they would have denounced you as a blasphemer long ago.” 

“I’ve never been religious, so that hardly hurts my feelings,” Aster replied, a frigid smile on her face. “And that hardly explained why you’ve sought me out.” 

“All good things in due time.” Deimos tilted her head to the side, curious like a cat. “I first want to see the _extent_ of your divine power.” 

Deimos lunged for her, crossing the heath in the space of a couple of heartbeats. Her sheer speed was terrifying, and Aster had barely enough time to push Hippokrates away, and then duck underneath the swipe of the sword. The tip of the blade streaked across her upper cheek, and blood slid down the side of her face. A few strands of her hair floated off in the breeze. She staggered backwards, pulling the Sword of Gryffindor free. If only the sword still had the Curse of Recall; the basilisk venom it had absorbed once upon a time would have seen Deimos dead in minutes. 

Sadly, things were never easy for her. 

Deimos was fury personified, moving like an unrelenting torrent. It was all that Aster could do to parry his attacks, and fight to not be skewered on the end of her sword. Her blood hammered through her veins, spurred onward by the adrenaline and panic. Her eyes stung with beads of sweat that rolled down from her forehead, and her lungs burned as hot as dragon fire. 

The shrill, ear-piercing peal of metal against metal echoed through the glade. The ground scrapped underneath her heel when she pivoted to the side. That cruel looking blade missed her by mere inches. Every move she made, the demigod was _right_ there. Her teeth gnashed together until her jaw ached, and her nostrils flared wide. Fear set in her lungs, like gasoline and the air was the spark to set it ablaze. The swords clashed together and crossed between the two women. 

“What the hell is your problem?” Aster growled out. 

Deimos let out a breathless laugh. “Problem? Here I thought we were having fun,” the demigod said, brazenly. 

“I don’t care for your definition of fun!” 

Her arms quivered. Her strength waned, and the entwined blades began to shake. The intricate pattern in the demigod’s sword glowed There was aura around Deimos’s sword. Ancient and timeless, the power radiated with the intensity of the sun and seemed to tremble through the blade like a song. It rammed into her skull, invading her sense and yanked at her magical core. The sword—it _wanted_ to be fed, to be gorged on blood and the fear of its intended victim. It was a bloodlust reflected the heart of the woman who wielded it. 

Aster forced the foreign energy from her mind. It did not slip out quietly, digging deep into her brain and leaving deep gouges on the way out. Blood dripped out of her nose and her vision went blurry, but the dark aura recoiled away from her. Deimos’s gaze darted down her sword, confusion etched onto her features. 

The witch seized upon the distraction and used all her strength to pry that cursed sword from the demigod’s grasp. It sailed through the air and flew across the field, and the demigod surged forward with a bellow of anger. Her palm grasped at Aster’s wrist and twisted it sharply with a bone shattering force. Aster bit back a cry of pain, the sword of Gryffindor falling to the ground. 

She dove to reclaim her weapon, but Deimos wrapped her forearm around the witch’s throat. Her arm was like a band of steel, and Aster couldn’t draw in a single breath. Her fingernails scratched and clawed at Deimos’s arm, when she was hauled up into the air with her legs flailing about. Panic surged like lightning through her teeth, her green eyes flared with unnatural light. Magic swirled inside her chest; a thunderstorm guided by the soul deep instinct to survive. It paused for a heartbeat, just beneath her skin and then electricity exploded outward in a shockwave. 

Aster fell to the ground in an ungraceful heap, coughing violently and scrambled across the earth to put distance between her and the madwoman. 

A shriek of laughter erupted out of Deimos, even as she had been thrown back by the magic and nearly knocked off her feet. “Maybe there is something godly in you, after all!” she crowed, a glint of triumph in her eyes. The warrior ambled over to her fallen blade and picked it up off the ground. She sheathed the blade at her waist before she turned to face the distraught witch. “The Cult of Kosmos would like to formally extend you an invitation.” 

Bloody and defiant, Aster glared daggers at the self-proclaimed demigod from where she knelt on the ground. Her eyes were hard and vicious, and her hands were clenched into fists. “I have no interest in joining your cult,” she spat out, breathlessly. 

“Don’t be so hasty,” Deimos cackled, her eyes wild. “You wouldn’t want to share the same fate as your dearly departed father, now would you?” 

Her heart seemed to stop, frozen by shock. With eyes the size of saucers, Aster stared wordlessly at the demigod with her chest heaving, up and down. Her temper bubbled to the surface, but she choked it down. “Go to hell,” she spat, angrily. 

Deimos smirked, turning on heel and disappeared into the night. 

Aster watched like a hawk, until the Cultist was completely out of sight. The adrenaline pounded through her veins was the only reason she was able to climb to her feet. She jumped about a foot in the air, when Hippokrates placed a hand on her shoulder. “Merlin’s balls,” she stuttered out. 

“We need to see to your wounds,” Hippokrates said, fretfully. 

Aster glanced down at her broken wrist, already swollen and bruised. The pain was starting to ebb to the surface, and she bit the inside of her cheek before she collected the Sword of Gryffindor. “Forget my wounds!” she spoke, her voice unsteady. “If Deimos searched for me then...” 

Understanding flashed through the healer's eyes like a bolt of lightning. “She might have gone there to your oikos,” he whispered, grim-faced. “The children…” 

“I know! I know!” she said, her voice breathless with panic. 

She trembled inside, the air around her churned with fear and agony. Her heart swung like a hammer, battering endlessly to burst right out of her chest. She could feel nothing but the mounting terror climb up the length of her throat like fire ants, and tears of self-loathing burned in her ears because what of she did—because of the monsters she led right to her own doorstep. “Hippokrates, I apologize in advance for what is about to happen, and I will answer all your questions in time,” she told him, grasping him tight by the elbow. “But first I need to go check on my family.” 

They disappeared from the clearing with a crack. If it weren’t for the trampled and blood splatter earth, there would have been no sign of them at all. 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song of the Chapter: • “Nothing is as It Seems” by Hidden Citizens ft. Ruelle 
> 
> Author’s Note:  
> 1.) Aster had been in Ancient Greece for 5 years now. She has been working as a healer but became more infamous for her ability to talk to the dead, thanks to the Ring of Resurrection two years ago. Rumors of her abilities spread like wildfire, and The Cult has chosen to pursue these rumors.  
> 2.) Kassandra was going to be the original protagonist, but I just love writing evil Kassandra. She brings me such joy and tickles my inner psycho. I honestly loved both Alexios and Kassandra, so I was tossing the coin on which was going to be hero and villain until the very moment I started writing.  
> 3.) Socrates is so hard to write. I love learning philosophy and history, but to try and keep this historical figure in character was the biggest struggle. Alkibiades was easy because his dirty humor is the kind I keep stored in my brain, and don’t have the balls to say out loud.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank Tabbymelons95, delphinepryde84, Scarlettravencrove, Livingshadow, Ryn_Tak, Lykae_Sky, catschmi, Jasminiasa14, StoryHabit, Blood_Rose21, Anxo, Ellerahs, jonesnatasha30, AshPig, Bookdragonslayer, Opheliad, Wildrose5494, Boomer1125, slytherinbitch, and Namikazenatsumi and the 5 guests for kudos!
> 
> I want to thank Jane0Doe and Livingshadow for the comments!
> 
> I want to also thank everyone for the bookmarks! I hope that you will continue love the story. :D

2

“The Whisperer of Elis”

* * *

_424 BCE_

_Euporia Oikos_

A crack echoed through the courtyard a split second before Aster and Hippokrates appeared out of thin air in front of a large oikos, nestled at the top of the hill that oversaw the vineyard below. The backlash from the spell had her release Hippokrates and bent over, puking her guts up in a nearby bush. Once the wave of dizziness and dark spots in her vision dispersed, Aster wiped her mouth off on her sleeve and rushed into the home. 

Roxanna lounged in vestibule. Her umber colored skin was covered in a sheen of sweat from a hard day’s training, and the whetstone in her hand paused in midair above the sword in her lap when Aster stormed into the room. 

“Aster, you are bleeding!” Roxanna jumped to her feet. The whetstone dropped to the floor with a clatter, and her sword held aloft, ready to fight. “What happened to you? Are you being chased? Do you need a healer?” 

“It’s complicated. No one is chasing me. Hippokrates is outside, and I’ll trust him to tend to my wounds.” Aster rapidly answered the questions, without pausing to take a breath. Her eyes darted all around the room, and her chest was tight with panicked. “The children, where are they? Is everyone safe?” 

“Teddy and Fauna?” Roxanna asked, wide eyed. “They are in the dining hall, eating supper.” 

Aster took off down the hallways at a neck breaking speed. It was not that she doubted the truth of Roxanna’s reassurance, but there was the unquenchable need to see that they were okay with her own eyes. She weaved around the couple of servants that were hired to caretake the house, muttering quick apologizes until she came to a halt in front f the double doors that led into the dining area. There was not a traditional place in Ancient Grecian home for the family to dine together, but Aster had created a space in her home for just that. 

With a quivering hand, she pushed the doors open wide and took a step into the room with her breath wedged in the middle of her throat. A bright, crackling fire in the stone hearth bathed the room in a warm, orange glow. An assortment of breads, olives, and fruits had been spread out along the table. And there, at the table’s end, with a board of _petteia_ between was Teddy and Fauna. 

Relief clamped down tight on her heart. She blinked away the tears that gathered in her eyes and pressed her hands to her mouth, to stifle the sob that sawed through her chest. Her knees trembled weakly, and she leaned against the threshold for support. 

“Olives are so gross,” Teddy said, nose wrinkled. He watched Fauna shovel olive after olive into her mouth, and he turned a bit green around the gills. 

“Olives are delicious!” The girl chirped, polishing off the plate. “It’s your turn.” 

Teddy shifted in his seat to peer down at the _petteia_ board. He was about to move a piece on the board, when Fauna who was idly swaying in her seat had turned to see Aster standing in the doorway and let out an ear-piercing squeal. 

“Aster, you are home!” Fauna launched off the chair and rushed across the stone floor, to throw her arms tight around Aster. She clung to the witch like a limpet, with a big smile that stretched from ear to ear on her face. Teddy abandoned the game and joined them, but at a more subdued pace. 

“Hey, you two.” Her heart swelled in her chest, ready to burst. “I am so happy to see you two.” 

“I didn't think you'd be home before we were already asleep,” Teddy said. 

Aster brushed Teddy's shaggy, sandy blond hair out of his eyes, and he gave her a large lopsided smile. He had a tooth missing, just off to the left of his front teeth. It had been one of his last baby teeth. Teddy had grown like a bean sprout, nearly up to her shoulder in height. He was determined to the point of stubborn, when he set his mind on a task. He was so smart, and quick as a whip. Fauna was so small, and tiny as a rail. Red curls hung down around her cherub shape face, and her big blue eyes that sparkled with joy. She grinned from ear to ear and hugging Aster tightly around the waist. The young girl wore her heart on her sleeve and couldn’t hurt a fly. She would go out of her way to make someone smile. 

Teddy smile dropped off his face. “Mom, your arm! And there is blood on your face!” 

Her face twisted into a grimace when she glanced down at her mangled wrist. The adrenaline was all, but spent, and she had to hide the pain behind a stiff smile. She was not stranger to pain and while it hurt a lot, this broken wrist was nothing compared to the cruciatus curse. 

“How did your arm get hurt?” asked Fauna, her eyes wide. 

“I went with Hippokrates to gather herbs from the foothills when something happened, and I got a bit careless is all. It looks worse than it is,” she responded, in a reassuring tone. She didn’t want to give them the details of what happened just yet, wanting to shield them from the mere mention of the threat that she had brought upon their doorstep, but she knew that she couldn’t keep it from them indefinitely. 

“I can see the bone and blood and just yuck!” Fauna buried her face into Aster’s stomach. 

“Are you sure you are going to be okay?” Teddy asked, earnestly. 

“I promise that all will be fine. I have to go speak to Hippokrates and Roxanna, so why don’t you to finish up supper and then afterwards, I will read all a story before you go to bed?” 

“I can read my own books. Acantha taught me how to, but…” Fauna visibly deflated, a shadow of uncertainty crept into her expression. “Sometimes, I still have trouble with some of the words.” 

The English language didn’t exist here, so the kids had to start all over with learning to read and write, which they hadn’t been happy about in the beginning. 

“I used to have trouble with words, too, when I was your age. So, why don’t we take turns reading and we can help each other when any difficult words pop up?” offered Aster. 

“Okay!” Fauna said, happily. She finally released her hold on Aster, returning to the table with a bounce in her step and started to finish her supper with haste. 

“Remember to chew!” Aster told Fauna, in a mild tone. 

Teddy worried on his lower lip with his teeth. He lowered his eyes to his feet, the very picture of indecisiveness and then he took in a deep breath, raising his gaze to her face. “Your wounds…it wasn’t just from you being careless, was it?” 

Aster glanced down at him. His face was so solemn and serious, a look so out of place on a child’s face. “You are too perceptive, you know that?” she asked, with a watery laugh. The chuckles dried up and she patted his cheek gently feeling her heart drop, and then released a weary exhale. “No, it wasn’t just carelessness.” 

“Are we in trouble?” asked Teddy. 

“I don’t know,” she replied, honestly. “Hopefully, none more than we can afford, but I promise that I won’t let anything happen to you or Fauna.” 

“I know that you won’t,” he said, without a single ounce of doubt. 

_Such faith,_ she thought, watching him trot back to his seat at the table. She watched the children for a heartbeat longer, enjoying the domestic peacefulness before the ache of her wounds became too distracting to ignore any longer. 

She made her way back down the hallway and entered in the apothecary room. Herbs thrived in the clay pots settled across the table, and copper pots hung over the fireplace. There was a wardrobe filled with potions with runes planted on the doors to keep it locked and secure, as there is a great deal of potions that were not benign and her children were too curious for their own good. 

In the center of the room, Roxanna and Hippokrates were in the midst of a lively discussion. It went hushed upon her approach. 

“Did Hippokrates explain what happened?” she asked. 

“He said that you were attacked by a dangerous individual. He didn’t go into specifics.” 

Roxanna pinned a glare at the healer with her bright amber eyes. Her jet-black hair was cropped short and close to the scalp, highlighting her sharp features that reminded Aster of a powerful lioness. She had not been content with the simple life on a farm as a wife and had worked herself to the bone since childhood to learn how to wield a weapon as good as any man. Her path had crossed with Aster’s a few months back in the village of Dyme, and since the witch had been concerned for the safety of her kids, she hired Roxanna to not only tutor the kids how to wield weapons but to guard them. 

The pay was excellent, so Roxanna had no complaints, and it wasn’t long before the two women struck up a friendship. She was also good with kids, having once had younger brothers, but Roxanna did not say much more about her family. It was too painfully of subject for her to broach. 

The crows’ feet around the corner of the healer’s eyes became more pronounced when he scowled. “It is not that I feel that Roxanna cannot be trusted, but the situation was…delicate to say the least. I felt that the details would be best coming from you rather than I,” Hippokrates defended. 

“Peace, you two.” Her eyes flashed in a way that caused the two to drop the argument, and then she walked over to the cabinet. She pulled it open with her good hand with enough force to make the potions rattle dangerously. After she found a mild _Salutem_ Potion, she pulled the cork out with her teeth and downed it. It tasted like mixture of mildew and goat cheese, but it curbed the cutting edge of pain. “We were attacked by a Cultist. Have you heard of the Cult of Kosmos?” 

“I heard disturbing tales before I left Melos, shortly after my father’s death. They are said to be like shadows in the night and are ruthless.” Roxanna settled her hands on her hips and tilted her head to the side. “Why would a Cultist come after you?” 

“I assume that they want my abilities to be exclusively at their beck and call, and to control the information that I can find. That is why they sent Deimos with an _invitation_ for me to join them,” Aster responded. She searched for the vials for a specific potion that would help promote the healing of the bone and nit her flesh back together. “If I want to speculate further, then I would say that the presbyters at the Temple of Hades had a hand in this.” 

“The Cult does a foothold virtually anywhere in society,” Hippokrates said. “It would not be a great surprise to find that they have corrupted another temple with their influence.” 

Aster hummed underneath her breath. “Roxanna, tomorrow I would appreciate it if you could speak to the workers in vineyard. Someone tipped off the Cult of where I was going to be today and gave Deimos the opportunity to follow us,” she said. 

“How do you want this handled?” asked Roxanna. 

The wards around the house were the strongest, as it was a personal space and harbored too many secrets. The wards on the vineyard were more laxed since the size of the farm needed workers to tend to it, even with the magic that helped the crops to thrive and grow. It kept out those who had malicious intent and a majority of threats, but wards were not foolproof and infallible. However, just because someone did not have to have bad intentions did not mean that they were incapable of causing harm. 

“No bloodshed,” Aster replied, with a shake of her head. “If this Cult is as powerful as Hippokrates states, they might have fooled or strong armed whoever leaked my whereabouts. I won’t add more suffering to what already seems to be the makings of a disaster. Just escort them off the property when you are done and give them a work’s worth of pay to tide them over until they can secure a better job.” 

Roxanna sent her a chiding look. “You are far too kind to those that you should see as enemies.” 

“I believe in trying to kill dissonance with kindness. Violence should be used to defend, and as a last resort, never an easy solution,” Aster commented, adamantly. A person’s level of reason and empathy could solve problems that were too delicate to be settled with a blade. There were too many in this world that saw war and retribution as common practice, and ready to stain the earth with blood when they wouldn’t even be the one swinging the blade. “Please, Roxanna, go get something to eat and a good night’s rest. You’ve no doubt have had a long day.” 

“As you wish,” Roxanna acquiesced, in a reluctant tone of voice. 

Roxanna walked out of the room and shut the door quietly behind her. Aster lowered herself onto the _klismos_ , the line of her shoulders drawn tight. Her expression was immutable, her green eyes gauging Hippokrates carefully. 

“I would have you speak your mind, Hippokrates,” she invited. 

“Aster—” Hippokrates sounded perturbed. His lips compressed into a thin line, while he took a moment to gather up his thoughts. 

“I knew that you were different from the other priests. You did not sit in a temple on high, hiding behind vague proverbs and archaic rituals, but were earnest in the work that you did, turning none away. I had always suspected that you were blessed by the gods to be able to speak to the dead, but the ability to travel such distance like that—” His voice fractured with astonishment, and he dragged a hand down his beard. His eyes darted from the floor to her face, and he had seemed to run out of words. 

“I am not a god, Hippokrates.” 

“But you are otherworldly,” he countered, quietly. 

“I am…not normal, no.” 

That was the short answer. It came nowhere near explaining all what she is and all that she could do, but it was simple and true. Aster unscrewed the lid to the potion bottle and used the dropper to drip a little bit of the potion on the bone first, then more of the flesh part of the wound. She couldn’t hold back the whimper when the bone snapped back into place. The discoloration faded from an angry purple to the dull yellowish, and the slowly the flesh knitted back together. 

Hippokrates let out a gasp of astonishment. 

When the hot rush of pain started to ebb away, Aster gingerly moved her wrist around. The potion helped with the worst of the break, and the laceration, but health potions were not always consistent with results. There could still be hairline fractures in the bone, so she would have to down at shot of _skele-gro_ at some point. A discomforting and persistent itch tingled in the tender skin around her wrist, an unfortunate side effect of the potion but it was a small price to pay to not have it broken any longer. 

“I have heard of witches that offer potions, but from all my research it is all superstitious and no substance. Again, you have proven that you are different,” Hippokrates commented, after he found his voice. “Have you used such potions in your healing arts?” 

“On occasion, I have. I would like to use them more, but the crafting process requires use of…my powers. I am not what I used to be, so it is more taxing than what it once was,” she said, quietly. It stung her pride to admit that something that had once came to her so naturally was now so troublesome. “I could make some simpler potions for you, if you so desired. Potions or salve that help promote healing—” 

“As much as I appreciate the offer, I cannot in good conscience accept it. There is always someone looking to exploit or profit from misfortune, and if word got around that I offered magical cures—well, that would stir the pot and invite the wrong sort of attention which I have no further patience to deal with. Besides, I would not want to rely on potions and sorcery as it could cause me to doubt and cripple my skill as physician,” Hippokrates answered, mildly. “If I do come across something that has me stumped, and need your advice then I shall call upon it, if that is amendable to you?” 

Aster dipped her head in acknowledgment. “That’s fair.” 

Her childhood had been a maze, a tangled web that was fraught with dangers and unimaginable things. She had been adventurous and mischievous child, but her enthusiasm had been curbed by the mistreatment from her blood relatives and the trials she endured from the Wizarding World. She still had a thirst to learn the world and venture beyond her safe horizons. There might have been a time when she had been a bit more hot-headed that she would eager seek out the Cult of Kosmos, and throw herself headfirst into the fight, but she had to have more care with her choices. She had already been too reckless and drew the Cult’s gaze onto her, and by extension those that are closest to her. 

“I am so sorry.” She folded her arms over her chest, rocked on the heels of her muddy boots. She heard a buzz against the drum of her ear, a wave of nausea and exhaustion pooled white-hot in her gut. “I never intended for you to mixed up in all of this.” 

“Bah, this is not the first time the cult has been a thorn in my side. I am still alive to tell the tale is all that matters,” Hippokrates said, with a small smile. “Besides, from what I had gathered, you were not looking to get mixed up in this chaos yourself.” 

A mild bark of laughter slipped out of her. “That is very true. I had not wanted to get mixed up in chaos, but no matter how hard I try, chaos always slipped into my life. It is the one constant truth that has prevailed over all else in my life,” the witch replied. She scooped her hands through her hair a couple of times, before “I will have one of the servants fetch you some food and drink, and see that you have a bed to sleep in. I did make you a rather reluctant guest.” 

He shook his head, absolving her of the kernel of guilt. “Think nothing of it. There were unavoidable circumstances, and I do not begrudge you the wish to check on the welfare of your children above all else. Besides, I must confess that knowing that Deimos is on the prowl that I was not eager to return to the city,” he said. “And these walls are far safer, at any rate.” 

She looked over him, with a furled brow. “I know that you must attend to the injured and sick during the day, but if it would ease your worries and bring you comfort, there is plenty of room here.” 

“I will consider the offer. Thank you.” 

After seeing that a servant saw to Hippokrates’s needs, Aster sought refuge in the privacy of her office. She crossed through the threshold on leaden feet and sank back against the door frame when it was shut tight. Her eyes fell closed when she felt the sudden burst of tears, and she released a slow exhale as if she were trying to release some of the heavy weight on her chest. The encounter with Deimos had rattled her deeply, and she needed a moment away from prying eyes to catch her breath. 

There an agony that consumed her, _moved_ through her as a gluttonous inferno that was well fed by every sacrifice and every mistake that she had ever made. She could not let this be another mistake—another failure. Whatever is to come, she would not allow this cult to hurt her family and friends or destroy her home. She had already lost too much because of this world. 

She refused to lose any more. 

* * *

_424 BCE_

_Bay of Kyparissia_

_Ionian Sea_

The _Adrestia_ cut through the Bay of Kyparissia, gliding smoothly across the surface of the sea. Alexios felt his eyes wondered to the Alpheus River, a cold sensation dripped down the length of his spine while he stared into the water that collided with the ocean. It was the Alpheus River was the largest river in the Peloponnese, and that the waters descended from somewhere in the Taygetos mountains. A small, but cruel reminder of his last days in Sparta. 

He prayed to any gods who would listen that his eventual return would be more kind. 

Alexios stood at the helm of his ship, overlooking the deck and the crew, who basked in the slow and easy morning. The wind snatched at his tresses, sent it billowing, whipping around his neck and jaw. A restless energy hummed in his veins, the familiar song that churned in his gut when he approached a bloody battlefield, and he questioned if that was what awaited him in Elis. All of Greece seemed to be besieged by Ares and caught in the throes of war and strife. The Nekromanteia caused him great worry as he had seen the destruction that oracles could weave with just a single word. 

Barnabas joined him at his side, with his hands clasped behind his back. The sea breeze tossed about his grey and wizened mane, and a smile was stretched across the seafarer’s weathered face. A long scar extended from his forehead down across his milky eye and stopped just below his cheek bone on the side of his face. His good eye was trained upon the sea, ever watchful and cautious. 

“Notus favors us and guides well on this day,” Barnabas spoke, quite pleased. 

Alexios drew in a deep breath, folding his arms across his chest. “The day has been fair so far,” he agreed, mildly. 

Barnabas frowned. “And yet worry surrounds you like a dark cloud.” 

“Any rumors about a Nekromanteia?” asked Alexios. 

“An oracle of the dead?” Barnabas shot him a look of surprise, a wrinkle upon his brow. “I know there is a Temple of Hades in Elis, but the festival of the dead is not for many more months. Though I have heard whispers about a healer that could speak to the dead, but this…information was not brought to me by the most reliable source.” 

Alexios arched a brow. “Oh?” 

Barnabas sighed, a breathless curse fell of his tongue. “Her name is Acantha, and she is a drunken witch on her best days,” he answered, in a hushed tone. It was if he feared to say her name too loudly, lest he summon her. “Her tongue was blessed by Peitho, able to persuade to part with their most carefully guarded secrets as easily as sirens can lure sailors to their demise.” 

“And how did you come to know this Acantha?” Alexios asked, amused. 

“I was deep into my cup, and the thrall of Dionysus had overtaken me. I mistook it for the work of Aphrodite, as Acantha appeared to me as a lovely vision. She dragged me off to a barn and our love making could be heard all the way to Mount Olympus.” 

Alexios fought hard not to grimace. “I could have lived without that last detail.” 

“In the morning, the vision was not quite so lovely. She had a scowl that would make a Fury of the Underworld quake, and chased me off with a broom when I tried to initiate—” 

“Where can I find this old paramour of yours?” Alexios interrupted, hastily. 

“Check the _kapeleia_ closest to the docks,” Barnabas replied. “The company is rough, but the spirits are cheap.” 

“I'll be sure to keep that in mind.” 

The Adrestia set anchor up at the docks, and his crewmen eagerly split out into the city to spend their coin on a little drink and company. Alexios observed all the people gathered at the docks from merchants to fishermen while Ikaros soared overhead, circling the warehouse that Athenian soldiers guarded vigilantly. He crossed (part of boat) onto the docks, only to be halted by Herodotus calling out to him. 

“Alexios, may I have a moment of your time before you depart?” 

“Of course, Herodotus.” 

Herodotus led him to a secluded part of the docks, where they could speak frankly and with a bit of privacy from unwanted ears. The scholar stood, his face contemplating the ever changing and ever the same sea. He wore an ankle-length dark blue exomis, and a tangle of brown hair held back from his weathered face by a blue band. His grey eyes turned to Alexios, and the corner of his mouth tucked downward in a frown. “There is a rich history here in Elis. Did you know that this city was once called Salmonia? Salmoneus founded it and named it after himself, but his arrogance doomed the city to ruin. He boasted and compared his might to that of Zeus, and the King of the Gods punished him striking him down with a thunderbolt and wiping out the city and all its inhabitants.” 

“Zeus's wrath was one to be feared,” Alexios commented. “What can you tell me about this city in particular?” 

“In the time before Heracles, the city of Elis was founded by Enymion after he led the Aeolians out of Thessaly. His father, Aethlius, a son of Zeus and Protogenia, are regarded as the first ruler of the Elis region.” 

Alexios arched a dark brow. “So, Endymion was of godly descendant by way of his father?” 

“According to legend, at least.” 

“And how did his legend end?” 

“Endymion sired many children, supposedly siring fifty daughters with Selene, though he was rumored to have many lovers.” Herodotus clasped his hand behind his back. “He remained ageless and deathless but was transported to the heavens by Zeus. Endymion would spit upon Zeus's kindness by falling in love with Hera.” 

Alexios snorted. “I can't imagine Zues would have liked that.” 

“No, he did not.” The historian shook his head, with his mouth thinned into a grim line. “Zeus tricked him and cast Endymion down into Hades for this betrayal.” 

“A goddess worth losing paradise for,” Alexios said, in contemplation. 

“Endymion certainly thought it was worth the risk.” 

“Herodotus...” He opened his mouth, then blew out a breath. “Do you believe those with the blood of the gods still live and walk amongst us?” 

“Once I did. Some must still do, but after the learning the truth behind the Oracle of the Delphi, and this Cult—it has tested my faith, to say the least.” With a scrutinizing glance, Herodotus tilted his head to the side. “You think this Nekromanteia you've been called to deal with is divine?” 

“People certainly do.” 

“Ah...you fear retaliation.” 

Alexios swiped his tongue of his dry lips, grimacing at the texture that was much like sand. His brows furled into a knot and his gaze sharpened, staring out at the people who milled about blissfully enveloped by their every day and ordinary lives. “Faith and belief is a powerful thing,” he replied, tone light. "This oracle has the people's faith. It would not take much for things to turn sour for me." 

“And I fear that the news I have for you will not make matters any easier.” Herodotus sighed, running a hand down his face. “I wanted to tell you that I have received reports from Anthousa about a Cultist in Elis, by the name of the Whisperer. It is said that this Cultist hold the ears of several of the most affluential people here in Elis and controls the trade and commerce throughout the city.” 

Alexios felt a white-hot suspicion boiled in his gut. “An Oracle of the Dead and the Cult in the same city?” he asked, voice low and dark. “Malaka!” 

“It is cause for concern given that we know how tight a leash the Cult keeps on Oracles,” Herodotus agreed, lightly, “but I would exercise caution in how you approach this. Do you best to make sure that your target is truly deserving of the bounty upon her head. Only then can you know if it is smart to risk the public's wrath--a wrath only second to Zeus's.” 

His mouth tightened, only for an instant, and then he dropped his head wearily. “I preferred the days when all I had to do was break a few skulls to make a bit of coin. All this political intrigue and skulking about in shadows does not settle well with me,” Alexios complained, pinching the bridge of his nose. “But I will go talk to Barnabas's... _friend_ , and try not to get myself in trouble if it isn't worth it.” 

“I want to visit the local asclepieion and speak to Hippokrates. He mentioned in his last letter that he had been asked to come help train healers here in Elis,” Herodotus told him, with a half-smile. “I shall meet up you with later in the city.” 

“Stay safe.” 

The misthios ambled through the crowd, catching snippets of conversations here and there, mostly about the upcoming Olympics. Bets were placed on which region would win the most wreaths and coin was already exchanging hands; everyone's spirits were high and joyful in light of the tentative peace between Sparta and Athens. He supposed he could not begrudge people their simple happiness, even if he felt in his heart that this war was far from over. 

He approached kapeleia, the pungent combination of fish, sweat and bitter ale nearly bowled him over, and he had to take a moment before he could cross the threshold. The bar was mostly empty at this time of day, with a few stranglers deep into their cups. One so far gone that he was mumbling drunken songs to a chair. There were none that matched the picture of this Acantha that Barnabas gave. The misthios arched a brow, and then shook his head lightly. 

Alexios walked up to the server behind the counters. “May I have a moment of your time?” 

“If you are looking for jobs, check the messenger boards,” the server stated, warily. “I have nothing for a misthios here, other than a drink to parch your thirst.” 

“I’m not here for a job. Just after some information.” 

The server gave him a gimlet-eyed stare. “That costs coin, too.” 

Dropping a bag coin on the counter, Alexios folded his arms over his chest. He waited through the server surreptitiously checking the quality of the coin, and the hiding the purse away hastily before the misthios started his inquiry. “I need to find a woman named Acantha. It is said that this her favorite haunt, by the docks. Do you know when she will show, or where can find her?” he asked, brusquely. 

The server opened the purse, checking the quality of the coin. “Acantha, sure. She used to be one of my best customers.” 

“Used to be?” 

“Found religion, she said. I just know that she hasn’t been around this drinking hole in a long time,” the server replied, disgruntled. “And you aren’t the only one asking about her.” 

An aggravated breath rumbled through him. “Who else has come looking for her?” 

The server dithered, a flicker of fear crossed his features. He ducked his head down, glancing around the establishment out of the corner of his eye. “Look I don’t know much, but Acantha is a good woman,” he said, reluctantly. “Stubborn as a mule but can toss back a drink with the best of them. There was a group of men, armored to the teeth and wearing these masks that would make Phobos shake in fear.” 

Alexios stiffened, alarm splintered down his spine like a bolt of lightning had struck him. He felt urgency spike white-hot in his blood, his gaze sharpened. The description caused suspicion to ripple from the roots of his hair down to his toes. “When was this?” he demanded. 

“Just this morning,” the server responded. “I didn’t tell them a thing, but there are others with far less discretion. Acantha enjoys passing time down at a farm, east of here where the wheat grows plenty. Spends her time in contemplation nowadays, or whatever nonsense she sprouted. I pray that you will find her first.” 

Alexios sprang quick as a lion, out of the building. He weaved through the flocks of people, between carts and horses, his eyes darted all around for the nightmarish armor that the Cultist donned. He could not allow the Cult of Kosmos to hurt Barnabas’s… _friend, if that was the word to use._ His heart hammered against his ribcage, and he reached out to the mental link that he had with Ikaros, bidding the eagle to be his eyes in the sky. The wind soared past him, roaring against the shell of his ears and stinging his eyes. His feet smacked against the paved the stretch of road, like the drums of war. 

The city was a blur of buildings and filled with a faceless sea of people, with shouts of panic and curses following after him. He reached the edge of the city that split into the wilderness, and he found himself at farm with a couple of silos. His eyes scanned the wheat fields, where not a soul tarried or worked. The chickens ran around, spooked and the cow let out mournful bleats. And there was trail of blood that let up the dirt path towards the house. 

Alexios drew the broken spear, from his belt and cautiously made his way forward. He reached the front door that had been beaten in, by a battle axe if he were to judge the way the wood was rendered to pieces. Beyond the broken door was a body, a young man no more than fifteen annuals. He had been gutted like a fish and left to bleed out on the floor of the homely hovel. _A message from the Cult to Acantha, or just a poor boy who got caught in the way?_ he wondered, with a deep-set frown. 

“Blood is still red,” he murmured, kneeling down to touch the boy’s arm, “and body still warm. This killing was recent. The murderers couldn’t have gone that far.” 

He glanced around the hovel, but other than the overturn table and fruit scattered across the floor, nothing seemed out of place. The misthios backed out of the home, when he heard a trill from above and saw Ikaros circling just to the north. He felt a tingled in the back of his mind, and he knew that his feathered friend had found something. 

He sprinted down through the fields of wheat, into the line of trees, over roots and rocks until he reached creek that cut through a small meadow. There was a disturbance—the cracking of tree limbs, and the splash of water, and out of the bushes came a group of Cultists. There was five in total, and all stopped dead at the sight of Alexios. 

There was moment where the world stood still, and the silence squeezed tight like a vice, until it erupted with a shout. 

“It the Eagle-Bearer!” 

“Kill him! Kill him now!” 

The brute of a man drew a deep breath and launched his mighty frame towards Alexios, the sharp edge of his battle axe glinted in the sunlight. The misthios sidestepped the attack, the axe cracked into the ground. With eyes promising death, Alexios brought his sword down through the wooden shaft of the axe to ruin the weapon, and the Spear of Leonidas buried deep his throat, just between his armor and mask. The Cultist let out a wet gurgle and clutching at his throat when a fountain of red flooded down, sliding down from the silver chest plate. 

Alexios did not have a moment to breath. The other Cultists set upon him like wild dogs, and the song of steel blades filled the valley punctuated by heavy breaths and battle cries. He had seen into the face of Hades, death passed him by breathless margins. He leapt, spun, evermoving to avoid the rain of attacks, and sliced and stabbed where he could. The chant of his ancestors whispered in his ears, propelling him forward until he cut every single Cultist down. By the end of it, Alexios stood the center piece of a wheel of death and broken bodies all around him. 

The red haze of battle slowly faded, and the world came crawling back in. His lips parted with heavy breaths, beads of sweat dripped down from his temples, and grabbed the waterskin from his belt. He pulled the cork out and took a deep drink to satisfy his thirst. The lukewarm water felt heavenly on his tongue, and the tension leaked out of his body until a warning cry came from Ikaros to indicate that he had company. 

“You certainly know how to handle yourself,” an old, wizened female voice came from behind him. “Not surprising, given that you are a Spartan. 

Alexios quirked up a tired eyebrow, putting the cork back in the waterskin. He tied it off at his waist, pivoting on his heel, and he saw an older woman enter the clearing. She had long stringy grey hair that hung down around her face, wild and untamed. A heart shaped face where the youth had been chipped away and lines of a harsh life had been etched into her skin, but there was still a beauty about her, in those large grey eyes and the mischievous curl to the edge of her mouth. 

“And how do I am Spartan?” he asked, his teeth set on edge. 

The woman strode forward, circling him like a vulture, stepping idly over his dead body. “I've known a few Spartan men in my time. There is certain...unbridled power in the way they have honed every inch of their body to be wielded as a weapon.” 

When she went to place a hand on his shoulder, Alexios caught her hand and bared his teeth in a facsimile of a smile. “You can look, but you don't touch,” he warned, darkly. 

The woman smirked, dropping her hand away when he released her wrist. 

“Now,” Alexios said, “who are you?” 

“I am Acantha,” she introduced herself, with a sly tone in her voice. “I suspect by the fact that you have sought me out, that you have already heard of me. Tell me, how is old Barnabas? Still telling tall tales about cyclops and furies swooping down upon him?” 

“He is well enough.” He paused, eyes narrowed at her. She stood tall and attentive, even in her humble trappings. Her eyes clear and sharp, and not hint of alcohol on her breath. “You are not what I expected you to be. The way Barnabas described you...” 

“Let me guess, he told you that I was a drunken old bat that could only find her way to the bottom of a bottle, or some poor slops bed? Ah, don't look so shocked.” Acantha let out a deep, throaty cackle that was reminiscent of witch's in old wives' tales. “There was a time that enjoyed an excess of wine and lovers, but I have chosen a much wiser path in recent years. I do not have so many years ahead of me now that I would waste them in a haze.” 

Alexios shifted, awkwardly on the balls of his feet. “He also mentioned you chased him off with a broom.” 

“I had my fun and he was taking up room. Have no fear, misthios, my broom wielding days are done,” she jested, with a half-smile. The humor melted away into a somber and piercing look, and her arms folded her over her bosom. “I have heard tales of your exploits, Eagle-Bearer. What glory do you search for here in Elis?” 

“I am here on a simple job.” His mouth twisted into a grimace. “Why were the Cultist after you?” 

Acantha let out a bitter bark of laughter. “Why do they go after anyone, boy? Because they consider them an obstacle in their way. The Cult of Kosmos hates obstacles, as you well know.” 

“And you are an obstacle _how_?” asked Alexios. 

“For now, all I will say is that I have knowledge that could be used against them, but I will not speak of it further. Not until I can decide whether or not you are trustworthy.” 

“I just save your life and I am not deemed trustworthy?” 

Her eyes bore into him, intense in their search, and tapped her fingers along her chin. “Most misthios can be bought or sold, and with the right amount of coin, allegiances can shift like the wind. There are so few warriors now with a scrap of honor to their name, but I’ll admit that there are tales about you that have spread throughout the world,” Acantha commented, slowly. “That you may shift from side to side of this war for profit, but that your dedication to the everyday man’s plight is a true as one of Artemis’s arrows.” 

“If you want to judge me by rumors alone…” he trailed off. 

“I would judge you by deed,” she said, frankly. “There is to be a festival in a few days. A celebration where the competitors and leaders can petition the gods for favor in the Olympic. A great number of those with influence and coin with be attendance, as well as a great number of priests and priestesses from the temples. I believe there will be more of the Cultist there, ready to stir up trouble. It would not hurt to have a misthios that is good at fighting from the shadows to keep the peace.” 

“Will the Whisperer of Elis?” questioned Alexios. 

Her eyes narrowed. “Perhaps. There would be a far amount of coin to be earned,” she added, with a light laugh. 

He considered it carefully, because such celebrations were a doubled edge sword. All those eyes and ears, but it was easier to blend into a crowd. In the end, he decided that it was well worth the risk. He couldn’t allow any Cultist to remain unchecked, and he could search for answers to the Nekromanteia along the way. 

“You have a deal,” he replied. 

“Good,” Acantha said, pleased. “I will send word to your ship about the specifics of the festivities and see if I can’t grease a few palms to get you access to places that you wouldn’t have otherwise. Oh, and given Barnabas my love?” 

“I don’t chase my captains with brooms.” 

Acantha let out a hearty laugh at his reply. 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note:
> 
> • Would the Ancient Greeks have known exactly where the Alpheus River came from? It is possible, but I found no direct indication that they knew the waters came from the northwest part of the Taygetos mountain at the time period that Odyssey is set in. Still given Alexios’s history with said mountain, it made sense to add the mention. 2.) Is this the same Roxanna from the game that the protagonist can romance? Yes, this is she. I loved the character so much that I used her here. I changed her hairstyle, but that is all. 3.) Potions—it makes sense that some kind of magic is involved with crafting potions, just beyond magical ingredients. Otherwise, if a non-magical person found the right ingredients they could have crafted potions, so that is why I made that little distinction.
> 
> Reference and Dictionary:
> 
> • Europia—means prosperity and plenty. Europia Oikos means “House of Plenty/Prosperity”.  
> • Petteia—is an ancient Greek board game that has a strong resemblance to the Japanese game called Hasami Shogi, and shares similarities to the Egyptian game Siga.  
> • Klismos—an ancient Greek style of chair.  
> • Salutem Potion—a creation of my own. Salutem (according to google translate, so trust the translation loosely) means “health” in latin. It is a type of health potion, and there are different types of health potions. As mentioned above, Aster takes a “mild” health potion, meaning that it helps with aches and wooziness from blood lose, but is not strong enough to mend her wound all together. A more potent version of the potion would have attempt to heal the wound, but given the bone was sticking out, that would not have been good.  
> • Flokati—is a centuries old handmade art that harkens back to Ancient Greece. Flokati rugs are 100 percent wool and handwoven.  
> • Notus—is the god of the South or Southwest Wind.  
> • Peitho—goddess of persuasion and seduction.  
> • Kapeleia—is a place that serves food and drink but is more focused on drink. _Taverna_ focused primarily on food.  
> -Phobos was the Greek God of Fear.


End file.
